To Taste Of Sin
by waywardvictorian
Summary: Harry Potter was no longer interested in being a martyr. He wanted to live, and after escaping his cell in Voldemort's stronghold, he encounters something he hadn't expected. Based on the song Hell fire from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, pairing Tom/Harry


A/n This is the first thing I have written in ages, hope it turned out well. I would like to thank my amazing beta: Corycian, she is amazing in all sorts of ways, and Miziggy for putting up with me.....

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Hunch Back of Notre Dame.

Harry walked quickly down the torch lit hall, trying to control his erratic breathing. He had come this far; it meant nothing if he was found and thrown back. Back into that damned cell. He had too much to live for: he wanted to live - not die a martyr, a selfless self-sacrifice for the greater good.

But this wanting to live would make him seem so selfish in their eyes, the public's eyes. To them he wasn't human - he would die and he would like it. He would be their gallant, heroic beacon of hope, and if he went down then they would fight on. He didn't matter. It wasn't his war, but he was embroiled deep with in its core. He had no way out, hence why he was trying to escape Voldemort's stronghold deep in the middle of somewhere.

He heard a sound farther down the hall, a door creaking open. Quickening his pace, he rounded a corner to see one of the heavy oak doors slightly askew. He stopped. From within he could just hear a muffled voice, and Harry shuffled forward, craning to hear what was said.

"My Lord, h-he, that is to say..." The man faltered under the scrutiny of the red eyes boring into him. It did not make what he had to say any easier. He feared for his life, and rightfully so. From the shadows, his Lord beckoned for him to continue.

The man took a shuttering breath, summoning all of his wavering courage and spoke before it deserted him. "He - that is to say… Potter, my Lord... He is no where to be found."

The man cringed. He had said it.

"Wha-at?" a deadly hiss sounded from the shadows near the raging fireplace. The informer knew this would be the end of his life. Voldemort's red eyes were blazing in the dark, and when he stepped into the light his cold high voice rang with fury.

"Crucio."

The man screamed and writhed on the floor, his body twisting unnaturally. Finally his master lifted the curse.

"Find him, the one who let Potter free himself, and then bring him to me. Now go. Get out. I will find him, even if I have to burn down all of England… I will find him." Voldemort crossed to the fireplace, watching the red coals.

The man bowed low, eternally grateful: he had somehow escaped with his life. He backed to the door, quietly opening it and slipping into the dim, murky hall. Harry stood hidden next to the door, and waited for the opportune moment to slip through. Right there - he had his chance, sliding through moments before as it clicked shut.

Harry's _avada kadavra_ green eyes took in Voldemort's study: the room lay in heavy shadow. Voldemort himself stood in front of the blazing fire, radiating anger. Harry crossed the room, deep into the murky half-light behind one of the great pillars where he could wait, and watch, until the moment came to kill  
this monster of a man, and have the whole messy thing over with.

Voldemort suddenly cried out in fury, his fist pounding into the white marble mantle. He hissed in pain, his long, white, spindly fingers clenched. In that abrupt moment he had changed, a long-held glamor seemingly dropped. The snake-like horror of his past form no longer stood before Harry, but was instead that of a boy. He couldn't have been older then nineteen. His eyes were green hazel flecked red, strong and steady. He was no longer a waxy corpse like pallor, but a fair cream, his nose straight, and his hair like midnight.

Harry's breath hitched painfully. This wasn't the man he had been forced to face his whole life - no, this was the handsome, charismatic boy he had met only once in memory, when he had been twelve. Tom Riddle, not Voldemort. No, this deadly beautiful boy couldn't, wouldn't ever be that monster. He couldn't be.

"It's fire, hell fire," Tom growled, arms wrapped around himself, his voice deep and rich and no longer like nails on a blackboard. "It burns, this fire burns me…" he hissed. Again his fist met the mantle, and Harry watched on, confused and intrigued.

Tom spun on his heel, and began to pace the ancient rug by the fire. Shadows from the flames danced on his pale face. "I am better then this, I am above this-this-this-drivel," he hissed, tugging furiously at his hair. "Why do his eyes burn, like this fire in my skin." He spun, muttering, "All his fault, Potter's fault, all Potter's fault."

He closed his eyes and sank on to the paper-covered desk, and ran his pale  
hand through his silky black hair. Harry was completely transfixed. "I am better then this..." he sighed, now out of steam and defeated.

Harry dropped his disillusionment charm and stepped from his shadow, his eyes fixed on the Dark Lord. Tom looked up. His flecked eyes met his born nemesis, and he rose to his feet, moving toward Potter who stood perfectly still as though he was a statue still staring into Tom's face.

A pale hand slowly, deliberately rose to Harry's face, stopping mere millimeters from his tan cheek. Tom closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as though trying to dispel the illusion, and he spoke, " I feel you, I see you… you're destroying me Potter."

Those long, slender figures ever so gently ran down Harry's cheek, his long lashes fluttering closed, a slight burning following where Tom's hand had touched him. Harry looked back to Tom, whose pale hand ran softly up the side of Harry's face and through his hair. He leaned into the touch: he wasn't going anywhere.

He felt trapped in a web, he had almost no control and didn't particularly mind whatsoever. He made not a sound as Tom caressed his face and hair. Tom acted as though he was an illusion. Harry felt like he was _in_ an illusion. But a risk had to be taken, and Harry sighed and spoke softly, "Hello Tom."

Tom went rigid. The fingers ghosting over Harry's face stopped, and wide eyes trained to his face. "Harry," he whispered, his hand cupping Harry's cheek as though checking that he was really there, that he wasn't going to dissipate.

Harry stood patiently and allowed Tom to make sure he was a reality. He was calm, and his deadly green eyes remained focused on Tom's. He leaned into every touch, every smouldering brush of skin. Tom leaned in too, lips so close, his warm breath on Harry's. He ghosted them against Harry's before pressing them together into a full kiss. Tom's hands ran over Harry, their lips moved together, and the burning touch spread, like a wave.

Finally Tom pulled away, breath coming in short gasps. He kissed Harry's neck near his ear, whispering to him, " You-You're like fire, you burn me, I can't make it stop, like hell fire, unexceptionable and constant." His slender arms wound around Harry's smaller form. Pulling the boy to him, he brought their lips into another searing, burning kiss. Harry had lost all semblances of control: he didn't want to think, worry. His head rested against Tom's neck. " You taste of sin," he breathed.

Tom smirked into his messy, raven hair. "Harry, I am sin."


End file.
